Oh Eru, please save me
by 8I
Summary: Boromir has died. Unfortunatly, there has been a glitch. Rather than ending up in the Realm of Mandos, Boromir has been sent to Hogwarts. But this is not the Hogwarts that we've all fondly read of . . . . Discontinued.
1. Other World?

**A/N: **The part at the begining, in the italics is taken directly from The Two Towers, except for the last line, which I changed. There's alot of diologue in this chapter, sorry. Just how it turned out.

Yes, I realise that everyone is acting incredibly out of character. That was on purpose, you know.

**Disclaimer: **Boromir and the bit at the beggining belongs to Tolkien. The Harry Potter Universe belongs to Rowling.

* * *

Chapter One

Other . . . world?

_Boromir opened his eyes and strove to speak. At last slow words came. "I tried to take the ring from Frodo," he said. "I am sorry. I have paid." His glance strayed to his fallen enemies; twenty at least lay dead there. "They have gone: the Halflings: the Orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them." He paused and his eyes closed wearily. After a moment he spoke again. _

"_Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people! I have failed."_

"_No!" said Aragorn, taking his hand and kissing his brow. "You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall!"_

_Boromir smiled._

_He did not speak again. _

* * *

It truly was a terrible storm.

The clouds boiled angrily. Lightning flashed in great forks.

As Boromir gazed at the sky, his first thought was, _'It is extremely quiet.' _

His next thought was,_ 'What?' _

He sat up and the first thing he saw was that his horn was cloven in two. _'Damn. Father's going to have a fit.'_

That was when he remembered that he was dead.

It was not a particularly pleasant thought.

Once the stream of curses abated, Boromir could imagine Faramir telling him not to be childish and to explore the place where he would be spending all eternity.

He was in a large hall. Four long tables including the one that he was sitting on took up the majority of the space.

The ceiling, he concluded, must have been made of glass for how else could he have been able to see the storm?

It was then that he noticed that the hall was lit by _floating candles_. It was the most . . . bizarre thing that he had ever seen.

Slowly he climbed off of the table, turned, and came face to face with a pair of bright blue eyes.

With a cry of surprise, Boromir leaped back and raised his sword protectively, which he had only just noticed was in his hand. It also came to his attention that it was broken near the hilts and would therefore not be much use, but it would have to do.

The elderly man who belonged to the pair of Bright Blue Eyes smiled and said something in a language that Boromir did not understand.

"I do not understand you," said Boromir. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Blue Eyes looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then smiled. He pointed a small wooden stick and said something that sounded like, "_Translatioso._"

"There," Blue Eyes said, "now we can understand each other! Isn't that just spiffing?"

Boromir was not quite sure how to respond to that comment, so chose to ignore it. "Who are you," he repeated.

"Why, I'm, Albus Dumbledore!" He looked surprised that Boromir did not know. "I'm the Headmaster of Hogwarts! Which is where we are. I'm also the Greatest Wizard in the world!"

Boromir lowered his sword slightly. "You are a Wizard?"

Albus Dumbledore nodded enthusiastically. "Of course I am! So are you, how else could you be here? Speaking of which, how on Earth did you get here? It's impossible to Apparate on Hogwarts grounds, I would know! Where do you come from? Why don't you speak English? Your clothes are incredibly old fashioned. And you have a sword!"

Boromir gaped at him, struggling to follow all that the man had said, and unsure which question to answer. Finally he sputtered, "I got here the, uh, the normal way . . . I died . . . . That is the only way to get here, is it not?" He was feeling quite perplexed and did not like it. Dying should not be so complicated.

Then Albus Dumbledore burst out laughing. "Dead? Ha ha, that's a good one! Dead, he says! Ha ha ha!" Wiping tears from his eyes, Albus Dumbledore added, "Seriously, how did you get here?"

Boromir by now was rather frustrated, and as a result was getting a headache.

"I do not understand what you mean! I am dead! That is it! This is the Realm of Mandos. Could you direct me to a woman called Finduilas? Or am I to spend eternal damnation trying to understand the babblings of senile old - !" He cut himself off with a sigh, passing a hand over his face. Slightly calmer, he said, "Is this a test?"

Albus Dumbledore was beaming at him as happily as ever. "My incredible mind has deducted that you are from another world! Isn't that spiffing? Anyways, I have come to the conclusion that you died in said world, but instead of going to the Underworld of wherever, you popped up here instead!"

"Other . . . world?" Boromir asked weakly.

Albus Dumbledore ignored him. "Therefore, there is only one thing to do. You must become a student here!"

Boromir stared at him. Of all things that he might have said, this was not what he had expected. "What?"

"Well, obviously, we can't have you wandering around a world that you know nothing about – especially if you're going to wave a sword around. It would create a big mess that I would probably have to clean up. Besides, do you have any suggestions?

"You could – "

"I thought not. Now, without any further ado . . ." Albus Dumbledore pushed sleeves up to his elbows and cleared his throat. He waved his stick around extravagantly.

"Wait, what are you –"

"_Youngificus Elevenus!_"

The thing that happened next was probably one of the most unpleasant things that Boromir had ever experienced. He began to shrink.

It started with the tightening of the skin. He felt like he was being squeezed through a much too small tunnel. His bones started to feel like jelly as they shrunk in on themselves. His beard fell off and his face grew smaller and more pointed. His trousers fell down, but that did not matter because his tunic was now ankle length and the bottom of his surcoat lay heaped on the floor.

He opened his mouth to let out a stream of profanities that he had been saving for moments like these (not that he had ever expected to be turned into an eleven-year-old), however the only thing that he managed was, "_Blast._"

"There!" Albus Dumbledore said, overly cheerful, as ever. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Boromir sent him a look that would have made Albus Dumbledore drop dead on the spot, had looks been able to kill. Luckily for Dear Old Albus, and anybody else who had ever been on the receiving end of a Killer Look (commonly know as a Death Glare), there was no known recording of anyone ever coming to their demise from said Look.

"Oh, do cheer up, Old Chap. You do bring one down. Come, I'll introduce you to the rest of the Staff!" Albus Dumbledore skipped down towards one end of the Hall, towards a High Table that Boromir had not noticed before. Sitting at it were several adults quietly eating and conversing amongst themselves, as if strange people appearing out of thin air happened every day. As it so turns out, this was not far off the mark.

"Hello, everyone! This is – what did you say you name was?"

"Boromir Denethorion."

Albus Dumbledore laughed. "That's a funny name. Anyways, from left to right is: Hagrid, Professor Quirrel, Professor Sprout, Professor McGonagall, me, Professor Flitwick, Professor Snape, and a bunch of other people who aren't important right at the moment! Now then, Hagrid!"

The giant man at the end of the table (Hagrid, apparently), leapt to his feet so fast that he nearly knocked the table over. "Yessir, Professor sir!"

"Are you finished? Yes, of course you are. I want you to take you Borememore Densnore to Diagon Alley and get his school stuff. This," he said to Boromir, extravagantly (so extravagantly, in fact, that he nearly took Boromir's head off) taking an envelope out of his pocket, "is for you. Now, then, off you go! See you tomorrow!"


	2. Something happened!

**A/N: **I'm a bit embarrased about how long it took me to write this chapter. . . it's not like I have a good excuse either. . . oh well, here it is. Sorry if it's a bit boring.

Chapter Two

"Something happened!"

Boromir reluctantly followed Hagrid. However little did he want to stay and listen to "Professor" Dumbledore's chatter, he was not especially inclined to go with the man-mountain that was Hagrid. Unfortunately, if he read the look that Hagrid was giving him correctly, he did not have a choice.

So, there he was, boots and trousers draped over one arm, the other holding his surcoat up around his knees, and walking into another hall which reminded him of the Throne Room in Minas Tirith (minus the throne), which only further reminded him that he would never see the White City again, at least not with living eyes. This brought a lump to his throat, which angered him, so Boromir gritted his teeth and ran to catch up with Hagrid. He was beginning to have and inkling of what it was like to be a hobbit.

"Entrance Hall," Hagrid grunted. "Fur enterin' the castle."

They entered a small room. It was bare, except for a large open hearth, a crock-pot containing some white powder, and a painting of a girl sitting in a meadow of flowers. Boromir barely spared the painting a glance, until a grey pony galloped into the picture. A knight ran into the scene, tripping over his own feet and crying, "Avast, ye fiendish beast! Stop I say!"

Boromir's eye's widened, but before he could say anything Hagrid yanked him around to face the afore-said hearth, in which there was now a blazing fire.

"Righ'," Hagrid said, "all yeh got ter do, is take some floo powder an' chuck it in the fire."

Hagrid demonstrated by grabbing a pinch of the powder and tossing it into the flames, which then turned green.

"Then, yeh get in an' say the name o' the place yeh wan' ter go, the Leaky Cauldron."

Boromir stared at him incredulously. "I am supposed to get _into_ the flames?"

"Yeah."

People have called Boromir many things, but cowardly is not one of them. Nor is suicidal.

"No."

Hagrid growled. "It won' 'urt yeh, but if yeh don' get in there righ' now, then I will."

Boromir decided that it was better for his own health if he did as he was told, seeing as Hagrid was about four feet taller than him.

Scowling darkly, he glared at the merrily crackling fire. He was not particularly fond of fire, no matter how useful it was. This was due to an accident that he had when he was eight, involving playing too close to the fire and burning clothes.

It had been a traumatizing experience, and not something that he particularly wanted to happen again.

He threw some floo powder into the fire and it turned green again. Right before he got in, he turned back to Hagrid. "Are you sure –"

Hagrid pushed him.

It was a pleasant surprise when he did not burst into flames.

"Oh."

Hagrid was looking at him impatiently (when was he not?), so Boromir said hastily, "The Leaky Cauldron?"

He began to spin. It would have been nice if Hagrid had warned him of this.

Boromir automatically tucked his arms in tightly and squeezed his now soot-filled eyes shut. After what seemed an age he flew out of the fireplace and onto the floor. Boromir staggered to his feet, and swayed for a few moments until he stopped feeling like he was going to be ill.

The noise was incredible. The room was packed with robed figures in various stages of breakfasting and bustling around. One table was particularly loud, as its occupants, a family of redheads, deemed it necessary to shout their opinions across the table to each other.

He startled as a floating tray whizzed past him at high speed, weaving in and out of various objects until it skidded to a halt by its designated table.

Boromir was roughly shoved forward towards the bar, where a wizened hunchbacked man stood, cleaning a glass.

"Tom," Hagrid grunted, "two rooms."

Tom grinned toothily and nodded, but said nothing.

They went through a door that led into a small courtyard surrounded by a brick wall. Hagrid walked up to the wall, took a pink object out of his coat and tapped it on seemingly random bricks.

Boromir discovered that the bricks were apparently not random, when an arch appeared, leading onto a crowded street.

"Yer list," Hagrid said. Boromir assumed he meant the envelope Dumbledore had given him, so opened it and took out the parchment inside. He looked briefly at the strange runes on the parchment before saying to Hagrid, "I can't read it."

"Yeh can't read – bah. . ." Hagrid grumbled. He snatched the pieces of parchment from Boromir, tossed one away and read the second. "Righ'. Get yer wand now."

Boromir had the strangest sensation that Hagrid's sentences were getting shorter and shorter.

Hagrid ploughed his way through the crowd to a shop and shoved Boromir through the door. He left without any explanation.

The walls of the dusty shop were lined with shelves, making it look like an archive – except instead of books and manuscripts, there were long, thin boxes.

"Hello?" Boromir called, wondering what exactly he was supposed to be doing here.

A small wizened man appeared from the back of the shop. "Hello!" he said in an irritatingly cheery voice, "I'm Ollivander! You must be a muggleborn, because I have _no _idea who you are! Hah!"

"A _what?_" Boromir wondered if this was some sort of insult.

"A person whose parents aren't magical, of course! Now then – wands!"

Boromir had no idea what a wand was, and was about to ask, but Ollivander had already disappeared. He came back with an armload of those slim boxes, which he dumped at Boromir's feet.

"You're going to be a tricky customer to match, I can tell!" Ollivander cried gleefully.

_Wonderful, _Boromir thought, _another eccentric old man. _

"Maple, unicorn hair, eleven inches." Ollivander took a stick out of one of the boxes and handed it to Boromir who looked at the stick (or 'wand' apparently) blankly.

"Well go on, give it a wave," said Ollivander impatiently.

Feeling dubious, Boromir waved and – nothing happened. Not like he had expected anything to happen anyway.

Ollivander snatched the wand out of his hand. "Nope!" he said, looking delighted. "Here, here, this one! Ebony and phoenix feather, eight inches!" The wand was snatched back almost as soon as it was given to him. "Beachwood! Nine inches! Dragon heartstring!"

This time when Boromir waved the wand, blue sparks shot out of the end. "Something happened!" he said in utter astonishment, dropping the wand.

"Yes," Ollivander agreed, looked extremely disappointed. He heaved a great sigh as he put the wand back in its box and started wrapping it in something brown similar to parchment. "Something did."

* * *

By the time Boromir collapsed onto his bed back at the Leaky Cauldron, he had a throbbing headache and he was exhausted.

Boromir had the feeling that he was being punished for trying to take the ring –and part of him thought he deserved it. Yet, if Boromir was honest with himself (and he always tried to be, except for recently when had started ignoring the rational little voice in his head) he wondered if he _really _deserved being trapped in the body of an eleven-year-old in a world full of insane people who seem to think he is a wizard. Was the guilt of betraying his companions and possible bringing forth the downfall of Middle Earth not enough?

_Evidently not. _


End file.
